


final breath

by Marenke



Series: whumptober 2020 [3]
Category: Carrie - All Media Types, Carrie - Stephen King
Genre: Gen, Whumptober, Whumptober 2020, yeah yeah she still dies at this but. dont you feel so sad she died alone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:54:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26556943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marenke/pseuds/Marenke
Summary: Carrie's power have this presence, this enormous weight that makes Sue drop down to her knees. The scream Carrie lets out isn't something her throat produces, but it's inside her head.
Relationships: Susan Snell & Carrie White
Series: whumptober 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1931353
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10
Collections: Ladies Bingo 2020, Whumptober 2020





	final breath

**Author's Note:**

> day 3! forced to their knees.  
> also a ladiesbingo fill, prompt 08.06: hurt/comfort!

Carrie’s power have this presence, this enormous weight that makes Sue drop down to her knees. The scream Carrie lets out isn’t something her throat produces, but it’s inside her head.

She crawls, because it’s the only thing she can do while Carrie’s distracted. The death of her mother (Sue sees no wound, and it’s maybe the first time she’s seen that woman’s face look so peaceful) seems to have stricken Carrie personally.

The closer she gets, the more oppressive her powers get. Sue feels like it’s a hundred miles between them, instead of the scarce few meters.

Still: inch by inch she reaches Carrie, who is crying on her knees, wailing loudly to an uncaring God. Sue can see the wound in Carrie’s body, and struggles to get up.

“Carrie.” She calls, louder than Carrie’s mind-screams. Carrie does not respond. Sue puts her hands on Carrie’s face, touches her forehead with Sue’s own. Carrie’s eyes - big, blue, watery and afraid - lock into her own.

She feels a hand go through her brain. It’s an unpleasant feeling, and she can see her own memories flash back to her. Carrie’s eyes do not leave her.

_ Ah.  _ It’s not a physical sound. Carrie speaks directly into her brain, and suddenly all the pressure is gone. Sue almost topples over, muscles weary from holding her up.

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. She rips off pieces of her shirt, makes a makeshift bandage before she helps Carrie up.

_ I killed people.  _ Carrie says, and Sue ignores it, trudging back home.  _ Why are you helping me? I’m going to be dead soon. _

“I don’t know.” She replies, and it’s true: Sue knows it’s a foolish job to try and get Carrie some help, but she still tries. Maybe it’s her conscience speaking, if she has one. “Maybe I just want to try.”

Carrie laughs, half-insane. Sue laughs, too, and she feels like Carrie made her. She doesn’t mind the foreign laughter, really. They sidestep corpses that smell like burnt flesh, and Carrie coughs blood with every step.

They’re near Sue’s house when Carrie makes Sue stop. Sue looks at Carrie, lips tinted red with blood, the makeshift bandage soaked through.  Both of them know Carrie won’t make it.

She sits Carrie on the curb, keeps her up, tries to give her at least some dignity in death, some sort of companionship, a friendship made up in a few seconds.  It feels cruel to leave Carrie to die alone; she has spent already so much of her life like so.

They look into the destruction for a long moment.

_ I’m sorry.  _ Carrie says. Sue holds her tighter, their fingers intertwining.  _ I wish I could’ve been normal. We could've been friends. _

Sue does not reply. She leans into Carrie, her warm cheek wet with Carrie’s blood when she touches it. In her head, she plays memories of her childhood, but with Carrie's face superimposed over one of her childhood friends. It’s easy to do so, to rewrite her memories and pretend Carrie had a normal life.

She can sense Carrie's smile, and when she looks, she does not see it on the girl's face, just an empty, vacant stare into nothingness. No, Carrie has retreated to a world of her own inside her mind, and left the body behind.

“It’s not your fault.” Are the words hers, or are they Carrie, rooting through her brain, puppeteering her? It’s hard to say. Sue finds she doesn’t care. 

_ I’m so tired. _

“Then rest.” Sue replies, and Carrie offers a mere nod, eyes closing, head dropping like an unpropped doll. “Goodnight, Carrie.”

_Goodnight._ Carrie says, and then there is no more. Sue keeps holding Carrie's body for a long time, unsure of what to do now that it’s over.


End file.
